The Iron Mask
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: This is my first story, so I'd appreciate any feedback I could get I noticed there weren't any stories featuring this character, and I've always loved imagining him as the "sad clown" type (think Mark Waid). It's sort of AU, but only becuase I'm not sure how to fit it with the timeline. Rated M for violence and rape. Please, please R&R!
1. Introduction

_He closed his eyes. If they were closed, it wouldn't hurt. (He liked to tell himself things like that; even if they weren't true, they made him feel a little better.)_

_Right on cue, Dad's fist slammed into his side. This was followed up by a series of kicks. Dad was taunting him, screaming that a real man would put his head up and fight. (He knew better than to respond to that. There was a difference between being a moron and being **stupid**.)_

_Finally, the kicks stopped. He waited a few moments, and then looked up. Much to his surprise, his father was staring down at him. The man didn't even look angry anymore, just sort of sad and dazed. _

"_You look just like your mother," the man said. Instantly, he tensed. (Dad didn't like to talk about Mary. She was a whore, she had left Dad, she had left him.)_

_His father reached towards him and he closed his eyes, anticipating another beating. Instead, he was surprised to feel Dad's large, callused hands rubbing him. There was a strange look in the older man's eyes, and an even stranger smile on his face. Suddenly the boy felt cold. (He didn't know what was going on, and he was starting to panic.)_

"_You're very pretty, you know," Dad was saying. "So pretty, like a girl. Maybe you should have been one." Then he was reaching for the boy's shirt and he began to scream. _

_What's going on-why is he hurting me-please stop Daddy-Daddy_

WHEET! WHEET!

Plas looked up, still bleary-eyed. Confused for a moment, he glanced around the small metal room atop the JLA Watchtower.

_Oh right. A dream. That's all._

Then he realized that the sound he had heard was the Watchtower's alarm. He dragged himself out of bed and began to prepare himself for work.


	2. Chapter 1

**Two Weeks Later**

Batman was in his room when he heard the crash. Well, it was really less of a room and more of a lab. He didn't sleep at the Watchtower: that would be careless. However, he appreciated the extra space. Not to mention, the Watchtower was usually relatively quite. Usually. When there weren't loud noises.

Once the initial shock wore off _(which took about 3/4 of a second; he'd have to watch that)_, he raced to the source of the sound. He wasn't the first to get there; Wally had already arrived. Still, he was there in time to see the look of shock and fear on Plastic Man's face before he covered it with his trademark grin. The source of the noise, a shattered mug that was now drenching the floor with tasteless coffee, lay at the jokester's feet. A cell phone was in his hand.

The inexperienced or unobservant would not have noted the slump of the man's shoulders, or the slight edge in his cheerful, "Hey, Bats!" but then again, no one could accuse Batman of being unobservant. Or for that matter, inexperienced. He responded to the light greeting with one of his trademark glares.

"What happened?" he asked, his irritation mixed with _(were he being honest with himself)_ slight nervousness only betraying itself in the tightening of his jaw. His cockiness returning, Plas shrugged nonchalantly.

"You're the detective; you tell me," he said, playfully transforming himself into a fair facsimile of Sherlock Holmes, provided that the latter was somewhat literal in his interpretation of Watson's first story. Seeing the Dark Knight's characteristic frown refused to budge, he sighed. "I dropped my mug, 'K? I'm not exactly what you'd call 'alert' right now." _(In the course of this speech, he turned first into a mug similar to the one dropped, then into an alert light, then into a figure that was impossible for the Dark Knight to identify.)_

"_Why_ did you drop the mug?" Batman asked, losing patience at last and wondering why he had allowed such a pointless conversation to consume so much of his time.

"Oh!" Plas said, not looking nearly as surprised as he sounded. "I just got some…bad news about a guy I…brought in." Gesturing at his phone, he added, "Come to think of it, I should probably call Angel, see how she's doing."

"Are you saying that she may be in danger?"

"No! Of course not!" O'Brien snapped, much too quickly. After a moment's pause, he added calmly, "I just figured I'd check up with her, see how she and Luke are doing. It's been a while since I've seen them, y'know. What with last week's _Twilight Zone_ special, then that nut from Apokolips who thought he could kidnap WW, then the utterly humorless android, who, by some remarkable coincidence, sounded just like you. And before that, there was the…"

_(Batman could see what he was fishing for, and could recognize that he wouldn't shut up until he got a response.)_ Not even bothering with subtlety, he murmured, "Hnnn, fine. You can have three days off."

Perking up instantly, Plastic Man was silent for all of three merciful seconds. Then he immediately started in again, saying 'thank you,' and 'great,' and 'hey is there anything you want me to do,' and 'y'know if I had a week, I could…'

Batman raised three fingers, then intoned, "Would you like to try for two?" Moments later, he was alone, and any thoughts of O'Brien's apparent nervousness had flown to the back of his mind. He suddenly smelled something burning, and remembered what he had been working on before he came in here. He turned around and walked slowly back to his lab just as the sprinklers Manhunter had just installed went off.

…

J'onn felt a shock hit him. It wasn't that his mind was being invaded, he was sure of that. It was more like the slight empathy he felt towards strong emotions, even when he was trying not to "overhear" thoughts. He wondered absentmindedly if he shouldn't ask Batman to design something to help, but then thought back on the "Babel" incident. For all that he trusted the Dark Knight's motivations, he wasn't quite ready to tell him that telepathic emanations could cause him pain.

Besides, this particular feeling bore investigation. The Watchtower was suddenly flooded with a strange sense of dread and borderline panic, mixed with a slight feeling of guilt. It felt old, which made it all the more strange that he had started sensing it only five seconds ago.

It really was bothering him, like a weight on his senses. It began to fade, but he could tell that it wasn't really disappearing; it was just leaving the Watchtower. He walked down to the teleporters to find if anyone had just left. Much to his surprise, he was informed that Plastic Man had left a few minutes previously.

_(Why would Plastic Man be feeling that? Perhaps this _is_ some sort of attack. He decided to ask Manitou to strengthen the wards around the base.)_ Trying to block out the sensation, J'onn glided to the commissary in search of Chocos.


	3. Chapter 2

Plas was a well-known party animal and self-proclaimed womanizer. He loved to dash off to strip clubs, seedy bars, and disreputable betting houses whenever he thought he could get away with it. He wasn't fooling anybody, but the senior members had, without thinking about it, decided years ago to ignore his little jaunts, provided that they didn't do too much to interfere with his work. On some level, everyone understood that Plas didn't have the same freedom of action he enjoyed before his reform, and that he needed an outlet. As a result, he had been missing for weeks before anyone thought to look for him.

…

Ralph was annoyed. The rubbery buffoon had failed to show up for monitor duty (again), the core members had been busy (again), and he had been asked to fill in _(again…well, not really. But he really had better things to do.)_ Grumbling about his superior deductive skills, the Ductile Detective, curled up in one of the League's large, floating, padded chairs. _(He really loved these. They almost made the tedium and humiliation of monitor duty worthwhile.)_

Glancing over at the panels of buttons around him, he got _(what in his opinion was)_ a wonderful idea. Each League member had a small tracking device inside his or her communicator. This was originally a safety feature, as the League's enemies, should they capture heroes, were not inclined to allow calls for backup. After the Ra's al Ghul incident, it had also become an informal application of the members' newfound paranoia. _(That was why Elongated Man hadn't removed his, although he undoubtedly could: it was best to show trust.)_ Now, it was more than possible that the same device could get a lock on what tawdry whorehouse Plastic Man was frequenting.

Grinning mischievously, Ralph brought up the communicators on the large monitor. A password was required to see locations, but he knew Mr. Terrific relatively well. The green flash of a correct answer gave him a warm feeling of accomplishment and superiority. Coordinates appeared on the screen. While he was strongly tempted to look at what "vital mission" had required that the Big Three leave with twenty dollars in cash and an embarrassed excuse about an attack on Metropolis, he decided that it would be best to respect their privacy. _(Besides, he could always check back later.)_ Scrolling down to "Plastic Man," Ralph quickly took down the coordinates, then brought up Google Earth. He entered the numbers, hoping for an address.

He didn't recognize the address or the neighborhood, but when he entered it online, he confirmed that it was the kind of seedy, low-class area he had expected. Snickering to himself, he turned back to the official monitors. At least he would have something fun to do once he got out of work.

…

Two mind-numbing hours later, Elongated Man arrived at the address. _(He was, of course, in full costume. If he as lucky he would get to scare some of the thugs that frequented these places.)_ His excitement quickly turned to confusion, as the building in front of him was a dilapidated apartment complex. The only inhabitants immediately apparent were a few winos clustered around the entrance. _(No matter: they were probably holed up in some back room, drinking.) _With the faintest nibble of apprehension biting into his confidence, he entered through the back door. His initial caution was only reinforced by the eerie atmosphere of neglect that seemed to fill the rooms. He began to creep up the stairs, unconsciously hugging the walls and stepping as lightly as his anatomy would allow.

He was halfway up the second flight of steps when he heard the banging. He wasn't even fully aware of it at first, and attributed it to knocking pipes. _(But wait; would the pipes in a building like this work at all?)_ He listened closer, and began to hear faint cries and screams interspersed with the banging. His training kicked in, and he raced upwards, stretching his arms out to grab onto the bannister ahead of him, which he then used to propel himself forwards. He was well past the fourth floor before the reason for his panic consciously registered:

_That screaming sounds like O'Brien._


	4. Chapter 3

The first thing he noticed was the large man. He was rather easy to notice, as he was red-faced, screaming nigh-incomprehensibly, and in the process of viciously kicking another man on the floor. It took Ralph a moment to realize that he was looking at Plastic Man. _(He was in civvies, which was unusual. And hang on, was he bleeding? Plas couldn't bleed. It wasn't how his body worked.)_

Without realizing it, Elongated Man had stepped into the room. _(There was a part of him disinterested to note that it was filthy, it stank of blood and excrement, and it was strewn with beer bottles.)_ He strode up to the aggressor and hit him, repeatedly. _(The detached piece of his mind noted that there were cracking ribs: the rest of him couldn't seem to hear anything.)_

Finally, something cut through his mental fog. He felt a gentle tug on his arm and spun around. O'Brien was barely supporting himself on one elbow. Upon seeing the rage in his colleague's expression, he instinctively raised his arm to block his face, nearly crashing back to the floor in the process.

His mind clearing, Elongated Man moved to support Plas. "It's fine," he calmly stated. "He can't hurt you now." He moved to prop the leaguer up against a wall, but stiffened as he heard a gasp of pain. It was only then that he looked carefully, and took full stock of O'Brien's wounds.

He was bruised and bloodied, his left leg was bent at a peculiar angle, and his prominently displayed ribs testified both to his state of malnutrition and their own damage. Worse still, multiple puncture and burn marks adorned his arms, and his eyes were faintly glazed over, whether from hunger, exhaustion, or pain, Ralph couldn't tell. Realizing that he couldn't be of any help, he turned to secure O'Brien's attacker and call J'onn.

As he turned, he heard struggled breathing. _(That was probably lung damage. It wouldn't be a surprise at this point.)_ Turning back, he could tell that Plas was trying to speak. He waited patiently, and presently, the injured man stuttered:

"Please don't hurt him. I…I know it looks bad, but it's my fault, r-really. C-could you leave him a-a-alone? I-I mean, I kn-know that he's….don't hurt him, OK? He-he's my dad."

…

About five minutes later, the League was in full clean-up mode. Batman looked over the scene. J'onn was with O'Brien, getting him ready for transport. _(He had asked the telepath to verify O'Brien's claims that the man who hurt him was his father, but the Martian had replied that invading his mind might be traumatic at this point.)_ Elongated Man was with Dr. Fate, Wonder Woman, and the Question, giving his account for the tenth time. They were trying to piece together what had happened. _(Bruce had heard the polymorph on the first retelling. It had been unenlightening.)_ The Atom and Zatanna were checking the rooms for evidence. _(There had been some excitement a few minutes ago when they found some needles in the other room. They hadn't been tested yet, but his personal suspicion was that they contained a metagene inhibitor.)_ The other members were guarding the building, interviewing witnesses, or handling business back at the Watchtower _(after all, just because a Leaguer got hurt, the world wouldn't stop turning)_.

Batman noticed that _(for perhaps the fourth time that minute)_ O'Brien was watching him. It wasn't an ostentatious thing: it was just a feeling he got, the odd gesture from the nearly immobile figure, and perhaps the occasional sight of Plas' eyes. Taking the perceived hint, he walked over to Manhunter.

"Hi, Eel," he whispered gently, using a tone he usually reserved for children rescued from supervillains. "How're you feeling?" _(He was terrible at this. He needed to take some classes on bedside manner or something.) _Manhunter leaned over to him and murmured, "He hasn't spoken since we found him." As a result, they were both surprised when Plas looked Batman straight in the eye, sat up a little, and croaked in an incongruously cheerful tone,

"Hey, Bats! Y'know how hard it is to get your attention these days? A guy has to near kill himself."

Batman crouched down in front of him as, his speech completed, his head dropped to his chest. His friendly grin stayed up, however, giving him the appearance of a marionette whose strings had been cut. _(Of course. O'Brien needed a distraction.) _Batman considered his response. _(He didn't know much about jokes. Well, except that one…)_

"Did you know that the Joker got me to laugh once?" he asked. His prompt had the desired effect. Immediately energized, Plas looked up, one eyebrow cocked into an inquisitive arch.

"How'd he do that?" he stuttered, his voice a faded rasp.

"He told me this old joke. It wasn't very good, not even by his standards. But Barbara had just been shot, and Commissioner Gordon was…well, it's a long story." There was a pause, then he tentatively asked, "Want me to tell you about it?"

O'Brien tried to nod, but abandoned the effort, grimacing in pain.

"Sure, Bats," he said quietly. "I'd love to."


	5. Chapter 4

O'Brien hadn't acted unusual since he they'd been returned to the Watchtower. He'd joked softly, swallowed some soup, and obediently endured the entirety of Martian Manhunter's physical examination, after which he had quietly gone to sleep in the infirmary. He hadn't cried, or complained, or made cracks about hidden cameras in Wonder Woman's room. He'd been remarkably well behaved.

That was how J'onn knew that something was horribly wrong.

The data from the medical examination only worsened his anxiety. A powerful drug had been administered, robbing O'Brien of his powers. _(They were working on an antidote, but the number of puncture marks in Plas' arms indicated that whatever had been used would wear off soon.) _There were multiple fractures, and his left shoulder had been dislocated. Bruises, cuts, and burns still adorned his bare arms, and his malnutrition was painfully obvious in the ribs visible through his thin hospital shift. _(It was unlikely that he'd be able to eat solid food any time soon, which J'onn had no doubt would be a terrible indignity.)_ He was running a fever of 102 [Fahrenheit], and his coughing suggested possible double pneumonia. He was clearly suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Most frightening were the bruises and tears along the hero's thighs, calves, and coccyx. _(Manhunter wasn't quite sure he was ready to think about the implications of that.)_

It was his turn to watch the patient. _(They had decided that it would be for the best if someone stayed with him at all times, and they all knew that they had to take it in shifts, or Batman would go mad from the lack of sleep.) _He was sitting on the bed next to Plastic Man's, absentmindedly reading a newspaper. _(He had gone over page 21 as many times, but he still couldn't tell what it was about.)_ Prompted by the unease that permeated his musings, he gently stretched a tendril of telepathic energy into the sleeping mind. Consciously, there was very little going on. With a twinge of apprehension _(and a slight feeling of guilt)_, J'onn went deeper.

It was a fire. That was the only way he knew how to describe it. There were flickering flames of shock, guilt, and pain, interspersed with glowing embers of ever-present fear and ignored despair. A hot haze of denial hovered over the inferno.

Backing off quickly, Manhunter shuddered. _(What on earth happened?)_

…

Batman couldn't focus. On one level, he knew that he was fighting with the Snakes, a street gang comprised mainly of twenty-somethings. He was currently slamming the head of one of their main players against a wall. As he turned to confront the man's skinnier brother, he attempted to analyze the situation. The facts as such were these:

Plastic Man had disappeared approximately three weeks and five days ago.

The last time he had been seen, he had received an (evidently disturbing) phone call and left the Watchtower hurriedly.

Two days ago, Elongated Man had made use of Plastic Man's tracker and had found him. _(This would indicate that he had been allowed to keep it, or his attacker was unaware of it.)_

Upon arriving at the scene, Elongated Man had been drawn by the sound of cries. He had found a large, obviously agitated man beating Plastic Man.

As he tried to apprehend the man, Elongated Man was told by Plastic Man that said man was his "Dad".

The Dark Knight was forced to pause in his evaluation of the situation to confront a surprisingly muscular woman with an automatic. He flipped her over his head into an acne-covered teenager, whose shaking hands and green complexion indicated that he was in the wrong line of work. Scanning the room for more opponents, he returned to his reverie:

Physical examination of _(Plastic Man; no, it would be better not to call him that)_ the victim indicated that he was malnourished and sleep deprived, which would indicate that his attacker had had him at his mercy for the better part of a week, at least.

The victim also exhibited signs of shock, physical assault, and _(much as he hated to admit it)_ possible sexual assault and violation.

He completed his summary of the situation as the gang boss he had been awaiting rounded the corner and slammed into him, almost without warning, He sustained a knife graze below his rib cage as he shook himself from his thoughts. One swift uppercut, two scans of the perimeter, and one call to the GCPD later, he was struck by a sudden recollection. He added:

The victim had once implied that his father had been abusive.1

Those were the facts (_as he knew them)_. They were, admittedly, very little to go on. _(Nevertheless, it was decidedly unnerving.)_ Furthermore, it was obvious that he couldn't perform his job properly while this affair remained a mystery to him. As he grappled away from the building, he came to a decision. He reached a rooftop across the street from which he could monitor the situation, quickly bandaged his wound with part of his cape, and pulled out his phone.

"Hello, Nightwing," he said. "Would you mind covering Gotham while I work on another case?"

1 See _JLA 65#._


	6. Chapter 5

John Henry Irons watched Plas from across the conference room. He was swathed in blankets. _(It made him look small: Steel hated that.) _If one overlooked his pale, emaciated condition, he seemed fine. He was smiling, joking _(trying a little too hard, though)_. The other members of the League were milling about, and the newer recruits were chatting with him. He was in the middle of a particularly artful tale about Diana's room when the big guns entered.

The smile froze on O'Brien's face when he saw the seriousness in Manhunter's eyes. The Martian was flanked by Wonder Woman, brandishing her lasso, and Superman, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. _(They looked like some kind of posse; no wonder the poor guy was nervous.) _Batman followed them, his expression unreadable. _(Word had gotten around that he'd objected to this, saying that Plas had a right to his privacy.)_ Having recovered himself, O'Brien favored them with large grins, and then resumed his patter. _(He still couldn't use his powers, but John Henry had no doubt that if he could, he'd be changing at least once every thirty seconds.) _

"Hey, guys! And Wonder Woman," he said, his gaze lingering on the latter personage slightly longer than was appropriate. "Might I ask to what I owe this honor?"

"I think that you know that," replied J'onn in his calmest therapist's voice. He sat down across the conference table from his patient. The others followed suit, and a slightly awkward silence settled over the gathering as everyone strained their ears to hear Manhunter's soft voice. For his part, the telepath knew to sit back and relax, placing a bag of Chocos on the tabletop and taking a moment to study the thin Irishman.

"I thought that I'd start by explaining how this will work." The entire League hung upon his every word _(save Batman, who seemed to have developed a sudden interest in a spot a foot above Plas' head)_. "If things are going to go…smoothly, you will have to tell the truth. I'd like to think that you'd do this on your own, but I don't believe that you would. No one does. Therefore, you have a choice: either you can let me into your mind…just to the extent that I'd need to know you're being honest!" This last was added quickly, in response to the sudden look of horror and trembling that accompanied his words. "Or, you can allow Wonder Woman to place her lasso around your waist. If you do this," he continued, over a rising hum of protest, "I will be careful to phrase any question I ask so that you won't be forced to answer. I just want to make sure that, if you answer, we can trust it.

Now, what do you say?"

O'Brien stared down at his hands. _(They were shaking, Steel couldn't help but noting. Not to mention, the blank, careful expression on his face mirrored the one on Batman's.)_ After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up:

"I'll take the lasso," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

…

Plastic Man was finding it difficult to focus._ (Run away! Run now! If you leave now, maybe they won't hear. They won't know. They don't need to know…dear god, did you just agree?! What's wrong with you, you dumb freak? Now they'll hear, now they'll hate you, and…)_ He was drawn back to reality by the feeling of the thin golden cord sliding around his midsection. Without thinking about it, he lifted his arms above his head and placed them on the table. _(This way they would see that he wasn't taking it off. Otherwise, they might not believe him.)_

Manhunter was saying something. Surprised at how calm he sounded, he looked up at the telepath _(Dear god, how much did __**he **__know?)_:

"Sorry, must've zoned out. What was that?"

J'onn smiled gently at him. "I was just asking if you were ready to start."

"Oh…sure." _(His voice was shaking; he needed to work on that. And maybe smile a little. That might help.)_

Manhunter smiled again, and it was obvious from the way he was doing it that he was trying be reassuring. Plas was used to that kind of condescension, so he ignored it.

"Alright. Would you please tell me, in your own words, what happened?" It was surprisingly open-ended and indirect, phrasing-wise, and O'Brien wondered why he hadn't been asked point-blank. He leaned back, and the lasso tightened around his chest. _(Oh, right. I can't lie.)_

"Well, I, um…" he cleared his throat. It didn't help. Stuttering and hesitating, he continued. "I, uh, got a phone call a few weeks back." _(Batman perked up at this and nodded a little. Of course, that would've factored into the detective's hypothesis.)_ "It was from…some people who work…with my dad. They, um, said that my dad had, um, escaped. From the, y'know…place. And that I should be careful, in case I, um, ran into him." _(He was getting really scared now.)_ Laughing a little, leaning back, putting his feet on the table, and studying his fingernails, he lightened his tone and continued:

"Anywho, he must've found out where I…where I lived. I, um, rushed home to, um, see if I could, uh, leave town for a…for a few days." _(His face was bright red. He was sure of it.) _

"I'd, uh, I'd told him about my…my powers." _(He noticed that every time he stuttered or paused, Manhunter wrote something down. He was probably making notes for what to ask questions about next.) _"He…he ambushed me when I got home, and gave me something for…to make my powers go away." He swallowed; this was getting harder.

"I'm not sure how long I was there. The…stuff that stopped my powers made me see things, and the blinds were closed. He…hit me, and he…cut me with knives, and he…" His voice dropped off. He couldn't say it. _(He'd started crying; he wasn't sure exactly when.) _He stared down at his hands until J'onn spoke. His voice was gentle, kind, sympathetic, even. Still, it made Plas' blood run cold.

"He violated you?"

"…Yeah, that."


	7. Chapter 6

Batman wasn't thinking clearly. He hadn't been since the session yesterday. He vaguely remembered escaping as quickly as he could. _(A voice at the back of his mind was telling him that he was being a coward; he did his best to ignore it.)_

He turned his attention back to the task at hand: going over any records of O'Brien with a fine-toothed comb. What he had found so far had been…astonishing, to say the least. His birth certificate, his dental and pediatric records, even his _driver's license_ were forgeries. With a faint grunt of what would have been surprise an hour ago, but was now a mere formality, _(apparently, confusion was cheap)_ he faced the most startling revelation of the day.

"John" and "Mary" O'Brien didn't exist. They never had. The proof? They didn't have professional records, they didn't have marriage license, they didn't have driver's licenses; they didn't have any one of a million little paper bread crumbs leading a searcher to them. Did Plastic Man know? _(Answer: Of course he did. He had said that that other lunatic was his father, hadn't he?) _Who were the people he had met a few years back? _(Answer: Paid actors.)_ Why was Plas forever mentioning his family problems? _(Answer: To reaffirm the lie.)_ Why had he believed him? _(Answer: Because he wanted to.)_

He continued, but couldn't focus. Every five seconds he remembered. _(That man was Plastic man's father. That man was Plastic Man's father. That man was…)_ Shaking himself vigorously, he decided to do some more digging from the other end, now that he knew for sure.

He had to visit the man that they had arrested.

…

Plastic Man was crushed. He didn't dare show it, because he knew how they'd react. Wonder Woman would give him another pitying look. Superman would start talking about baseball _(he hadn't seen Supes as the "50's Dad" type, but there you go)_. Manhunter would try to thrust _another_ one of those damned cookies at him. Flash would make a break for it. GL was up in the air, but he'd probably conjure up a notepad and start drawing. The list went on, but the upshot of it was, none of them would help. Then, they'd go bother Bats. _(Why did he just leave like that? Oh, you know why. He can't stand to look at you. Liar! Whore! Freak!) _

He came to himself, realizing too late that he had been crying aloud, pressing his pillow to his face. And he was still under 24/7 surveillance. _(You're a moron, Eel. You know that, right? You're a liar and a criminal and a cheat, and you're lucky that they still haven't realized that. Except for Batman. He'll tell them why he left, and then they'll get rid of me.)_

His reverie was interrupted by loud shouting outside. Straining his ears, he could make out a familiar deep voice. _(It's Batman! Why is he back so soon? Oh god, he knows everything! He's going to come in here and yell! Or worse, he'll be disappointed. How could I be such an idiot? I let Batman down. Batman!)_

Deciding that he would rather face his punishment on his own terms than lying in bed like a weak freeloader, he struggled to his feet. Clutching his I.V. for support, he staggered out of the infirmary. There were alarms going off, but he didn't care.

After what seemed like only a few seconds, he found Batman in the teleporter room. He and Manhunter were arguing, but they stopped when O'Brien staggered in, drenched with sweat and panting from exertion. For his part, he sank to his knees as soon as he saw them.

_(Weak, pathetic idiot! You deserve it. You deserve it all.)_

"I'm sorry," he gasped, his eyes filling with tears. The last thing he saw was Batman rushing towards him. _(You deserve it! You deserve it!)_ Then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 7

When he woke up, things were hazy. The bed, the lights, his memory- everything was blurred and unfocused. _(What'd happened? What was going on?) _Everything was bright white. He could feel his eyes cross and uncross as they adjusted and focused. His head ached. Fighting an inexplicable sense of vertigo, he turned his head to the side…

…Only to see Batman staring imperturbably at him. His memories returned in a flash. _(What did you do? What the hell is wrong with you?! You should've left him alone! But no, the ever-so-clever Eel O'Brian had to screw things up, again!)_ He struggled to sit up, propping himself on his elbows and making a tangled mess of the sheets.

"Batman," he coughed. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-" He broke off in a fit of coughing. He closed his eyes, only opening them when he felt a gentle pressure on his chest.

Batman gently pushed him back into bed, unobtrusively shifting his arms so they no longer supported him. Before the coughing fit had ended, he found himself on his back, with the sheets drawn up around his shoulders._ (He shouldn't be doing this for you. You don't deserve it.)_ The dull thump of water hitting Styrofoam interrupted his thoughts.

"Thirsty?" asked Batman, proffering a cup. Without waiting for confirmation, he lifted O'Brian's head with his left hand and lifted the cup with his right. For a few minutes, Plastic Man focused on drinking, trying not to spill any liquid I his haste to moisten his throat.

"Thank you," he whispered, leaning back. Batman sat down again. They stayed in this attitude for a number of minutes, and then Batman cleared his throat.

"O'Brian?"

"Yeah?" came the weak response.

"I'm sorry." _(Why is __**he **__apologizing?)_ "Manhunter says that…" _(He's nervous?) _"…You became depressed in my absence. Because I was ignoring you, and you thought it was your fault. I was…It wasn't because of you. I wanted you to know that." The Dark Knight fell silent. While this was normally an ominous sign for whomsoever he was facing, today the silence was more solemn than dangerous.

"S'okay, Bats. I should've known." Plas made an effort to smile. "I just…didn't want to scare you."

"I'm not scared." Something of his old stoic denial of emotion was in that phrase, prompting O'Brian to try to laugh. It didn't work out well.

Once the coughing had subsided, he asked what had been going on. The answer, given hesitantly, both touched and shamed him. _(Of course he was doing research about you. What kind of an idiot would think otherwise?)_ From there, they moved to more mundane topics. They chatted about nothing in particular.

After about an hour, Batman noticed that he was having trouble staying awake. He told him to get some rest and promised to be back the next day. As Batman turned to leave, he was stopped by a faint call of "Bats?"

"Yes, Plas?" he asked, swiveling around.

"When do I have to start talking again?"

Batman hesitated, his brow furrowing. After a few seconds of internal conflict, he gave an honest answer.

"Four days. Maybe three." He paused at the door for a moment, waiting for an answer. He waited for almost two minutes before he realized that O'Brian was asleep.

…

The next three days were uneventful. Batman visited for an hour (or a period of consciousness) whenever he could. Various members of the League, Reservists, and a few technicians came to see the patient for varying lengths of time. They talked, played cards, and made sure he was comfortable. Cards and gift bags piled up. Manhunter had no idea where they were coming from. Plas wasn't even that well liked. There was only one thing that every visitor and every card had in common.

None of them mentioned what had happened.

It took Manhunter a little while to notice it, and it helped that his work in the Watchtower made him partially responsible for sorting everything and arranging the visits. In addition, his role as the League's _de facto_ therapist entitled him to watch the infirmary security footage. Still, it wasn't until the second day that he realized how unwilling they all were to discuss their emotions on the matter.

Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure about his own perspective. He could get vague impressions, at times, of what O'Brian was feeling. _(It wasn't intentional, in much the same manner that one cannot help overhearing loud yelling.)_ They were deeply disturbing, especially because they were oddly familiar. It took him a few hours of musing to pin it down, but the realization was worth the effort, in all its chilling clarity.

On Mars, he had worked as a man-hunter, or a police officer. Like all police officers, he had at times encountered some unpleasant truths about the crimes a diseased mind might commit. As a result, he was more than aware of what rape did to a mind, and how it might change. But there was more than one kind of rape.

What Plas had gone through, whatever his father had done to him, and whenever it had been done, it had affected him more than "normal" rape. His father had changed him, forced open his son's psyche at the same time as his body. He had filled him with misconceptions, prejudices, and groundless fears. He had violated him and damaged him in the most intimate manner possible.

This wasn't a rape of the body, but of the mind.


	9. Chapter 8

It was decided that, due to the personal nature of _everything_ in this case, Plas would start receiving one-on-one sessions from Manhunter. Batman, for his part, wasn't pleased, if only because he couldn't hear anything. He decided to take his mind off the matter with a brief vacation from the League.

Three days later, he was in the middle of a drug bust when his JLA communicator buzzed. It was J'onn, saying that they needed to "talk." _(That was bad news, if Manhunter's tone was anything to go by.)_ Nevertheless, he promised to meet the Martian in an hour. _(Had he been honest with himself, he would've admitted that he was nervous.)_

Forty nine minutes and twenty seven seconds later, he stood outside a plain metal door marked, "Martian Manhunter: Founding Member, Team Strategist." _(His own door just had his name: he'd found that his reputation spoke for itself.)_ It slid open before he could knock, but he'd expected that, and thus remained perfectly composed as he entered the all but bare room.

J'onn was sitting in one of the chamber's two high-backed chairs, facing the door. His face was an expressionless mask mirroring Batman's own. With a swift glance, he directed the Dark Knight to seat himself. He steepled his green fingers, staring at them as if they were the key to an Injustice Gang maneuver _(and as the Injustice Gang had attacked last month, Bruce was fully aware of the resemblance)._

"Bruce," he began. Batman involuntarily tensed_. (It was never a good sign when his first name was used.)_ "I have some rather… disconcerting news. And a request - but I'll get to that in a minute." Batman nodded wordlessly. Satisfied, Manhunter continued:

"O'Brian… I've been giving him daily sessions for the past few days. Usually in the hour when you… when he's awake." _(J'onn's hands were shaking slightly. Interesting.)_ "And, well, the thing is- he won't talk. Not to me, in any case. He's perfectly polite, friendly even. But he's mute. He doesn't crack jokes, he doesn't laugh aloud- he doesn't _say_ anything."

"I see." He kept his tone even. _(__**Plastic Man**__ wasn't talking? At all? But the last time he'd seen him he'd seemed… ah.)_ "You think that he's stopped speaking because I'm not there." It wasn't a question.

"I _know_ he has." J'onn sighed. "Yesterday, I spent two hours with him. We played cards, I told him about some of the cases the League's working on… and he didn't open his mouth once the entire time I was there. I confess that I was getting frustrated. Finally, I decided to peek into his mind." Batman raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I know it was wrong. I rationalized it, saying that I was useless as a therapist if I couldn't use my powers, that he would thank me later, that he _needed_ me to pry… It doesn't matter. I should've known that any sort of violation of his privacy under the circumstances was unforgivable, but I did it anyway.

What I saw was… disturbing, to say the least. He's acting very calm, just like he was before he told us about… what happened. In reality, he's terrified. He doesn't trust any of us, least of all me. My telepathy frightens him, and he's growing paranoid about the private nature of our sessions. He's worried that I might use my powers to… to hurt him somehow, or make him hurt himself.

I'm afraid that I had a rather violent reaction to seeing his thoughts, and he immediately realized what I'd done. Well," he continued, extending his left arm to show a number of small scratches. "… He made it very clear that he thinks I should respect his boundaries."

"Have you spoken to him since?" _(He probably hadn't. It would certainly explain his evident reluctance to broach the topic. That and the obvious fact that he was completely in the wrong. At the moment, it was taking a great deal of Bruce's formidable willpower to keep him from lighting the Martian on fire.)_

"No, and even though I'm not reading your mind, I can tell that you're angry."

"Anger doesn't even begin to describe it." His voice was cold and distant, and his face remained blank.

"I'd like to ask for your help in fixing this." When it became obvious that he wasn't going to ask, Manhunter continued. "Would you talk to him? Tell him that I didn't mean any harm? That I… that I'm sorry?"

"On one condition."

"What?" His face was hopeful, but his tone of voice suggested that he remained chary.

"From now on, I will be granted attendance to all of his sessions." It was clear that argument would not be tolerated.

"…Fine."

…

Plastic Man was reading a magazine. He couldn't read a word on the page, but he needed something to do with his hands. _(Manhunter was in your mind. That's wrong, he only does that with dangerous criminals and nuts. What's more likely: that __**he's**__ in the wrong, or that there's something wrong with you?) _He looked up sharply when Manhunter entered. _(Don't let him into your mind again. He'll hurt you, he's dangerous, just like… Dear god, where's Batman?!)_ He smiled calmly. J'onn frowned. _(He's reading my thoughts. Don't think about anything. Don't think, don't think!)_

"Plas?" The tone was light and friendly, reminiscent of that used to tell a child he has cancer. "I wanted to apologize to you. My behavior was inexcusable, and I'm sorry. I know that you probably can't trust me anymore, and I don't expect you to forgive me. As a result, I called someone you _do _trust. He'll be allowed into your sessions from now on, and we'll talk about whether you want to continue them with me or with someone else. Is that OK?" There was no answer. "OK. Well, ahm, he's outside, so I'll just call him in." He turned to the door, but it was already opening.

O'Brian's eyes grew wide with interest. _(Batman's here? He's back! Why is he back? Did Manhunter tell him what happened? That you scratched him? Bats must think you're crazy. You are crazy, aren't you?)_ Batman ignored J'onn's stumbling explanation and walked to the bed.

"He-hey Bats. Wh-what's up?" His voice was a whisper. Batman didn't smile, exactly, but he seemed a little less stoic than usual.

"Manhunter, would you leave us alone for a minute?" The tone was mild, but there was something threatening about it. J'onn turned and left without a word. Batman eyed Plas critically.

"Are you OK?"

That was all it took. The next thirty minutes were a blur of confessions and mangled apologies and frightened explanations. Through it all, Batman simply stood there without responding or urging him on. That was all right. He didn't need reassurance. He just needed someone to listen to him. He was sobbing by the end.

A moment later, strong arms were gently encircling his shoulders. He cried for another fifteen minutes before calming down. Even then, he continued to burrow into the well-muscled chest covered by the bat-insignia.

"Bats?" His voice was stronger, if a little muffled.

"Yes?"

"I have no idea why people are afraid of you."

Batman couldn't help it: he chuckled.


	10. Chapter 9

Things got easier after that. Plas was extraordinarily nervous around Manhunter for a while, but the League was (ironically) not known for its ability to keep secrets. Even though he switched to sessions with Wonder Woman, O'Brian couldn't prevent J'onn from hearing about the things he said through the JLA grapevine.

For their part, the majority of the League members were stunned at the things they began to hear. Things like the time Seamus O'Brian had taken his son to Vegas, checking him as baggage to save on the airfare. Or the fascinating tidbit that Plas literally _hadn't_ had his shots, as his father considered vaccinations to be a waste of time. The worst part of these revelations wasn't the knowledge that their teammate had been damaged: it was the new perspective this knowledge gave to their treatment of Plastic Man over the years. For example, it had seemed a good idea at the time to criticize O'Brian for not knowing the difference between a proton and a neutron. With the understanding that, calling him a "useless retard," his father had refused to send him to school or see to his education, their comments began to seem less… admirable.

They weren't quite sure how to respond. Many avoided Plas for weeks, only to seek him out in the hopes of delivering awkward, stumbling apologies. His disconcerting calmness and attempts to soothe the supplicants only worsened their guilt. Others (especially Elongated Man) could react with little more than redirected rage and self-loathing at not having realized the problems sooner. The better detectives of the League were taking it especially hard, as they felt that the signs had been obvious from the beginning. The phrase "hindsight is 20/20," had anyone thought to mention it, would have offered them little comfort.

Plastic Man himself was getting better every day. He began to laugh again. It was less frequent an occurrence than it had been, but it felt more genuine when it happened. His jokes returned with his good-humor, and they, at least, hadn't changed, much to the disappointment of all concerned. He returned to League meetings and missions, and people began to realize how much they had missed him in times of crisis, both for his power and for his personality.

He grew much closer with Batman than anyone, even Superman, had previously believed possible, After all, the Dark Knight tended to keep human beings, with all of their faults and complications, at a safe distance. But now he seemed… not more open, exactly. At least, not with anyone else. But when neither of them thought anyone was listening, he could be heard chuckling, or joking. And O'Brian seemed to get something out of the association as well. He focused more on his actions during missions than he had before, and he started taking formal combat training.

In short, it isn't often that a story can begin with violence and end with joy. The face behind the iron mask is never one that wants to see itself. But every now and then, one looks behind the mask, only to find that what was hiding could never have been so twisted and deformed as its covering had been. When that happens, what can I, a humble teller of tales, say but _"and they all lived happily ever after?"_


End file.
